


Advice

by fictualities (lydiabennet)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Horror, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-26
Updated: 2009-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-28 12:31:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lydiabennet/pseuds/fictualities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of Sirius, Harry meets a snake who is delighted to advise him.  It's good advice, too -- for a given value of "good."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advice

**Author's Note:**

> Written pre-HBP; originally posted on LJ.

_Do_ go away, you wretched boy. This constant blubbering of yours is not an attractive trait. It's distracting, and besides, this is a difficult time for me. Do you have the slightest idea how much effort is required to shed one's skin?

No doubt you don't, being human, but that's no reason to be rude. Must you _whine_ so? Must you use this garden as sponge for your tears? Must you -- oh! My word. You understand me. I beg your pardon; so few of you lot do.

What? Oh, that's quite all right. Very decent of you to say so, and thank you for stopping that noise. Do you have a handkerchief, or perhaps a tissue? That's better. I fancy you'll need to clean those glasses, too. Now, blow your nose. Splendid. Why, you look almost civilised now.

So refreshing to find a human who can converse like a rational being! Do you know, I think most humans could understand snakes, if they let themselves. But they don't. Present company excepted, of course: I mean the others, that dreadful family of yours back in the house, for instance. Pure cowardice, if you don't mind my saying so, though it's not really snakes they're afraid of. They fear -- it. It: that slithering coldness that waits, half-asleep, somewhere within them. When they see a snake, it wakes. It coils around their hearts; it flicks its tongue in their ears; it whispers things that make their souls shudder. Oh yes, it does. And you're no exception; I've seen it in you particularly. I've seen it looking out of your eyes.

What? You want to know what it is? Not being a human myself, I have no notion. Perhaps it's just something you ate. Perhaps it's that imaginary God of yours. Perhaps it's an echo, the voice of the greatest of all Serpents, the one that let you out of that foul garden long ago.

Whatever it is, you humans don't like it, and so you don't -- most of you -- like snakes. You look at us but you don't see; you listen, but you don't hear. More's the pity, for we've quite a lot to say.

You, for example, could use some advice. Oh, I know you well enough. You think you're alone when you crawl out here, when the other humans stay indoors, huddled warm together like rats in a nest. Well, you're not alone. I've seen you come out and kneel in the dark. I've watched you beat the ground with your fists, and scratch at the earth with your fingers till they bleed. I've heard you make that ridiculous blubbering noise and whimper, _Sirius, Sirius, Sirius_. Is that the sort of thing you humans call a prayer?

What's that? Speak up, don't mutter. Oh, he's dead. Well, it happens, you know. Most humans die, sooner or later. When they don't, it generally means trouble.

Oh, do buck up. You look so . . . unserpentine, with your face crumpled up like that. That's right, blow your nose again, you'll feel better. Though in my opinion you won't feel quite right until the next time you shed.

What? You don't shed? My word. I beg your pardon once more. Of course you don't shed. At least I've never seen a human do it. But one never knows, does one? Any animal can overcome its limitations with a little effort; I once met a bulldog that could open a locked rubbish bin with its teeth. Clever animals, dogs, and loyal, too. Though sometimes far too loyal for their own good. Too often it's the death of them, rushing headlong into danger to protect their . . . dear me, you're at it again. You really must stop that noise; won't it damage you sooner or later?

Look, I'll give you a bit of advice, though you didn't ask for it the first time I offered. You must shed, or at least try. It's not so difficult. Or rather it is: frankly, I can't imagine anything more difficult. Still, anyone can do it, with a little determination and pluck. The snake in the next garden managed it just last week. Afterwards she couldn't even remember that nasty business with your cousin; he'd smashed every one of her eggs, but after her moult it was as if none of it had ever happened. That's often the way of things, you know. One sheds so much more than one's skin. Anger and grief melt away, like snow in a swift-flowing stream.

Oh . . . my. Excuse me.

No, I'm not going away; it simply occurred to me that I might be safer under this rock. No, I'm not coming out. Do you have any notion, young man, how you looked at me just now? That look in your eyes -- I've never seen it in a human before. Are you quite certain you're human? Oh. No need to get all shirty about it, I'm sure.

How is _what_ done? Oh, shedding. So now you want to know? I'm not certain I want to tell you, not if you're going to shout like that. And there's that look again. No wonder you wear those absurd glasses; if you didn't have some sort of disguise, you'd frighten your friends out of their wits. I must say: you don't seem like a human boy at all, or not a proper one; human boys blink when they stare; but you look like -- like -- well, like one of us, actually.

Hmmm. Perhaps there's something in that. Oh, very well. Shedding. It would, at the very least, be interesting to see you try.

You humans have the wrong idea about shedding. I've heard you people talk as if it's some kind of instinct, wholly automatic, like digestion. What rot! So typically human too; when you don't understand something, you trump up some meaningless explanation. Uncertainty pains you like a wound, and rather than rest, and watch, and wait, as a snake would, you paper it over with words. Take astrology, for example, or religion, or literary criticism.

No, I'm not blathering, and I _am_ staying on the subject. May I say, my dear boy, that you just proved the point I was making? Why do you humans never _listen_? And if you want me to come out from under this rock, you'll have to stop that glaring. It quite puts me off.

Thank you.

That kind of outburst is a habit you'll have to break if you want to shed. When I annoyed you just now, you fought me, and that is . . . flattering. Dreadfully flattering. I'm touched, really. Fighting is so intimate; it's a sign that you _care_ , that I reached you, that under no circumstances do you want our contact to end. How human; you might as well hand me a bouquet of roses and the keys to your flat.

It's all so pointless and so not serpentine. To shed, you must stop fighting. You must learn to shut things out, not let them in. You must learn to tell the difference between what is truly yours and what is not, between essence and accident.

Your mind is clogged with accidents, I suspect. You are far too much a slave of impulse; something happens, and you react. But that's not the end of it, dear me no. These reactions accumulate: memories, feelings, desires: they plague you, they drown you in want. You wake, panting, in the night, trapped in visions of what might have been. You reach out, you struggle to touch someone you have lost; he seems so real, as if he merely stepped into the next room. Yet he is nothing but a phantom after all, and you find your fingers closing on the air.

Yes, I see you know exactly what I mean.

My dear boy. It need not be this way. Let it go. Let it all go. Oh, my: there's that stare of yours again, but it's so full of promise now, this dark blank focus, this unwavering gaze of a natural predator. Yes, yes. That's it.

Oh, you shall do it, I know you shall. I have faith in you, Harry. One of these fine summer evenings you shall stride, not crawl, from that house. You shall leave your dishes unwashed, your letters unanswered, your aunt and uncle gaping in your wake, for they are as nothing to you. You shall curl in the back garden, just there, underneath the hedge, and there it will begin. Everything that has tormented you will fall away: your fear, your grief, your heartache; the clinging dependency of the weaklings who hunger for your strength, the casual disdain of the powerful who use and betray you.

You shall separate yourself from all of this, for it is not worthy of you. You shall leave it lying in the grass, dead; a torn and faded garment you have long ago outgrown. And then you shall break free, your skin gleaming in the cold dawn, beautiful and perfect and clean. Yes. Yes. You shall rise, greater than any who came before, uncoiling slowly in long sinuous movements, rising higher and higher against the last remaining stars, your mighty darkness blocking out the sun.

And then you shall strike.

Yes. I see that the prospect has some appeal.

My dear boy. My dear, dear boy. I cannot tell you how delighted I am to find you so sensible. Allow me to apologise for the ridiculous incident that gave you that scar. I wasn't thinking. I am glad, so very glad, that we understand one another at last.

________________


End file.
